I keep going.
My shoes kick up dust, and my legs are caked in dirt. My shallow breathing is the only sound disrupting the perfect silence of the mountainside. The day gets hotter.
My legs get heavier and heavier until I’m sure each step will be my last.
I have to cool down. With everything I have, I pull just enough magic to the surface of my skin that it produces a cooling effect throughout my body. The bite, the perfect cold of winter, settles in my skin, and I breathe out in relief. It feels as if I drank enough ice water to permeate my whole body. I walk faster.
A slight breeze moves through the air, and I kick up my magic enough to get a stronger current going.
I close my eyes and breathe some more.
My heart is pounding fast and hard. I wish I could slow it down. It’s taking everything I have just to stay awake, just to keep breathing.
I follow a bend in the road, and in the distance is sharp, blinding sunlight.
I trip and stumble toward it. I’m not sweating anymore, and my lungs hiss from the effort it takes to breathe.
With shaking hands, I release some magic to the earth and form one more rain cloud. It’s small, barely enough for a full drink. It will have to do for now.
I stare at the main road, at the sunlight hitting the pavement, and I steady myself. I can do this.
With one shaky step after another, I walk to the end of the dirt road.
Everything looks distorted, as if there’s an Earth-sized sunbar between me and the rest of the world.
The temperature ticks up now that I’ve lost the elevation of the mountain.
One hundred and twenty-one degrees slam into me, and for a moment I think I will ignite upon impact.
But I don’t. So I keep walking.
One foot in front of the other.
Left.
Right.
Breathe.
Chapter Nineteen
“I’ve had moments of despair and deep resentment. But then I stand outside and touch the earth, feel the magic in my fingertips, and understand that this is how it’s meant to be. The sun and stars conspired for me, and I am filled with gratitude.”
—A Season for Everything
I have been walking for hours. I think it’s been hours. Maybe it’s been minutes. I don’t know. The heat wave must be keeping people indoors, because only a handful of cars have passed me. I waved at them all, but none of them stopped.
Then again, maybe I’m delirious. Maybe I didn’t wave at all.
My vision is blurry, and the road stretches out so far in front of me that it fades into the horizon.
My magic is the only reason I’ve been able to make it this far. It moves underneath my skin, keeping my body as cool as it can. But even magic is finite, and when it runs out, so will I.
Headlights appear in the distance, blurry white orbs moving toward me.
“Help.” I try to yell the word, but it’s inaudible. I clear my throat. “Help,” I say again. This time, the word is a whisper.
I can’t think straight.
I have to wave, get the driver’s attention somehow. My brain tries to send the signal to my arms, but they don’t move.
“Help,” I say again, and with every ounce of strength I can gather, I lift my arms above my head. It feels as if I’m lifting the weight of the whole world.
But it works.
The truck slows and pulls over.
Sang jumps out, and now I’m sure I’m imagining things. He’s running toward me.
I want to yell at him. I want to scream and push him away for not warning me about this test, for not trying to stop it.
I want to collapse in his arms. I want to cry and cling to him because I’m so relieved he’s here.
He rushes to my side and wraps an arm around my waist. He is searching my face, and his lips are moving, but I can’t hear what he’s saying.
He’s so blurry.
“Family. Mountain,” I manage to get out.
I can’t support my head anymore, can’t support anything. All at once, my strength is gone, and my legs give out.
My magic is the last thing I feel, still working when everything else has stopped.
Then darkness.
***
When I open my eyes, I’m in a truck. It’s moving quickly, trees passing by the window in a blur. There are cold, damp cloths on my forehead and chest.
I roll my head away from the window. Sang is focusing on the road, squeezing the wheel so tightly his knuckles are white. The edge of his hand is covered in faint pink paint.
I reach out my hand, run my fingers across his jaw. He looks stunned. His eyes get teary.
Then he places his hand over mine.
I can’t hold my arm up anymore.
“I wish I hated you,” I say.
Then I’m gone again.
***
I’m admitted to the hospital with a temperature of 111 degrees. Nurses and doctors swarm around me and get me in an ice bath less than ten minutes after Sang carries me in. I convulse in the tub.
Once my temperature lowers, they put me in a bed with cooling blankets and hook me up to an IV. The doctor taking care of me, Dr. Singh, looks at me in wonder and tells me I’m “miraculously stable.” She stays past her shift to monitor me.
A nurse takes my blood pressure and pulse, then asks me if I’m up to seeing a visitor.
I nod, and few moments later, Sang walks into the room.
He doesn’t hesitate. He rushes to the bed and puts his hand on my arm. His eyes are bloodshot, and his skin is splotchy. He brushes the hair out of my face, looks me up and down as if to reassure himself that I’m real.
“The family—” I start, but Sang cuts me off.
“They’re okay. Mr. Burrows picked them up this morning.”
“He came back?”
Sang
